


undertow

by wariangle



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne Bonny is a woman as ruthless as the sea upon which she practices her bloody trade, with a tongue as lethal and ungentle as the knives she hoards like treasure, but Max has made a trade of knowing what is folded away in the hearts of others, to read desires they have hidden even from themselves as easily as if they were writ upon their skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	undertow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about all the sea references, but I honestly just can't help myself.

Max has always been drawn to a certain kind of woman, one with a will of iron and restlessness in her bones, whose love is sharp and biting like shark teeth.

If Eleanor Guthrie had been a man Max would not have looked at him twice without the promise of coin in return. It has always made her wonder, how she can be so drawn to the very things in women she would have despised them for had they been men. Eleanor is been as possessive and headstrong as any man, fancying herself too independent for affection and refusing to see how Max had held her together piece for piece as she ran her little empire.

And Max had loved her, loved her ambition and brashness, loved the way her lips shaped around the word "fuck" like an attack on the world around her, defiance like an steely glint in her eyes. Max had loved the security she provided, loved being nestled in her soft bed, their bodies twined into one, a being without end. She had loved the taste of her kisses, the stunning feeling of her touch on her skin, the sound of her laughter.

It had felt like drowning, like being pulled down into the deep dark blue with no promise of salvation, when Eleanor had ripped all of that from her with two small words and a ringing wall of silence. She had thought Eleanor needed her as much as she needed Eleanor, but in the end it was Max who had been discarded, left bruised and ship-wrecked in a hostile place.

But she rebuilt herself. She is now a madame, she has position and income and no need for Eleanor's coin to keep men from her bed. She dresses in heavy brocade dyed in rich colors, enjoying the weight of the expensive fabric as she walks, and draws kohl around her eyes every morning before her mirror with a smile from the knowledge that it is for her and her alone, and not for business. These are things she will never give up, proof of the stability she has provided herself, and she will let no one topple her from perch, no matter their skill at knife-work.

Anne Bonny is a woman as ruthless as the sea upon which she practices her bloody trade, with a tongue as lethal and ungentle as the knives she hoards like treasure, but Max has made a trade of knowing what is folded away in the hearts of others, to read desires they have hidden even from themselves as easily as if they were writ upon their skin.

It is a different dance this time, she thinks, as she skulks into Anne's room, her skirts rustling as she moves. Seducing newly paid men drunk on rum is not a difficult task, but what she wants from Anne is not coin or favors. She needs partnership, an ally she can trust not to turn on her. Not the enemy Anne's shame over her concern for Max has made her.

Anne's knife bites into the soft skin of Max's throat, cold and unyielding, and for a moment Max hates her, hates the whole goddamn lot of them, everyone who has ever laid hands on her with the promise of violence, who think they can rule the world by the tip of their fucking blade.

But she reaches across and kisses her anyway, taking her mouth slow and gentle, as if there is hesitation and deference there, as if she is waiting on Anne to make the final move.

The knife makes a dull clattering sound as it hits the floor and Anne moves closer against her, her hand going to cup Max's cheek as she surges forward, into the kiss to deepen it.

-

Come morning, Anne helps Max lace up her corset, her battle-roughened hands proving surprisingly adept at the delicate task. Her hair brushes Max's bare shoulders as she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of Max's neck, which sends a shiver of pleasure down her spine. She fills her hands with Max's breasts, her mouth moving upwards, seeking out Max's lips anew.

Max turns in her lap, to kiss her properly, and Anne's hand steals between her thighs, a quick grin flitting past on her lips as she finds Max wet and ready for her fingers.

The door swings open as Max leans heavily against Anne, her forehead on her shoulder, breathing heavily as the aftershocks ripples through her body, with Anne's fingers still fit snugly inside of her and her mouth warm against her cheek.

"Oh, good," comes Rackham's voice. "Let us hope you can fuck some better mood into her, if nothing else."

-

Anne comes into Max's room with blood on her hands, knuckles torn up, and slams the door behind her.

Max is already in bed, but still has a lamp burning, bathing the room in omnious light. "Is he hurt?" she asks, thinking it would be just her luck if one of her two partners went and died just as their business is growing stable.

"Wouldn't be if I hadn't intervened," Anne grunts, grabbing a handkerchief from Max's vanity to clean off the blood.

"Your protection won't keep him safe," Max says. "What do you think they punish him for, his crimes or what they see as his deference to you?"

Anne slams a hand down on the vanity, making her perfume bottles rattle.

"They should mind their own fucking business," Anne mutters. "Or I'll have their fucking lives. Fucking cowards."

There are times when Anne reminds Max much of Eleanor. Anne loves Rackham in the same way Eleanor loves this godforsaken island - unrelentingly and to the point of stupidity.

Anne stomps over to the bed and sits down on the other side of it. She bends bends down over Max and angles her face up, taking her mouth in a deep kiss.

Max brushes her off. "No," she says. She is not in the mood, particularly not for Anne's anger.

Anne falters and ducks her head to shield herself beneath the brim of her hat. "Sorry," she says, voice rough and regretful as she pulls away.

"You are welcome to sleep here," Max says. She has grown used to having Anne's presence in her bed as she sleeps. The nights seem less dark, less threatening, with another's soft breathing in her ear, another heart beating in time with hers.

Anne nods and stands up to strip, her clothes clanking and jangling as she drops them to the floor. Before climbing back into bed, she tucks a knife beneath her pillow, as she always does.

Living in this world is like navigating a raging sea mad from a storm, Max thinks as she fits her body to Anne's, letting her hand curl around her shoulder.

-

It is a while later, long past where Max thought Anne to be asleep, when she says, "He took me in when I didn't have shit. He made a place for me. Taught me things. Without him, I wouldn't have fucking made it."

Max can't see her face in the darkness, and her voice, rough and low-pitched as always, yield little. Still, she reaches out and takes her hand.

Anne doesn't seem to react to the touch. "When someone gives you a life, it ain't truly your own. You owe some part of it back."

Max doesn't know if she's talking about this, them, or about her own protectiveness of her husband. Perhaps both.

"I think," she says, after a beat of silence, "that we cannot live our lives in eternal debt." She thinks of Eleanor and all that she did for Max, and what came after.

Anne says nothing and the silence lingers, spreading like an ocean between them. Max falls asleep expecting Anne to be gone in the morning, but she is still there, eyes closed and her face softened in slumber, and she realizes that makes her glad.

-

Max never thought herself a vindictive woman, but she takes great pleasure in getting under Eleanor's skin with small acts of petty retribution. She has no interest in ruining Eleanor's operation or take her beloved Nassau from her - she still holds too much tenderness in her soul for that. But she does what she can to annoy her with the information she gathers from the girls.

She knows Eleanor's temper and expects her to snap, but she does not - their girls still works the inn and the three of them are still allowed drink their fill at her bar. Which is saying something, considering that Max has seen men thrown off the island for less. She often feels Eleanor's eyes on her, a familiar prickling between her shoulder blades.

It is too hard, sometimes, to ignore her. More often than not, Max finds herself turning, returning Eleanor's wistful gaze. On this night she is viciously beautiful, dressed in black and red, a scarf tied around her neck, looking every inch the pirate queen she is.

Taking her cup of rum off the bar, Max turns away, unwilling to let her mind follow that thought to the end. She walks across the room and, hungry for distraction, sits down in Anne's lap. She takes a burning sip of her drink and leans in for a rum-scented kiss, biting softly into Anne's lower lip.

Anne's fingers dig into her neck as she pulls Max closer, her tongue pressing into her mouth and Max feels how the familiar heat begins to stir within.

Anne draws back a little, leaning her chin against Max's shoulder. She grins wolfishly - less a smile than a show of teeth. "You trying make the bitch mad?"

For a moment Max has no idea what she means, but then she follows Anne's line of vision and catches sight of Eleanor, her face turned away, but her jaw clenched tightly and her hands white-knuckled around the bottle in her hand.

"No," Max says, even though she doesn't know if that is the truth.

Anne's head turns and for a second there is a look on her face, gone in an instant, of such vulnerability that Max has to lean their foreheads together, pressing a chaste kiss against Anne's lips.

"Fuck knows she deserves it," Anne mutters, turning her face away to swallow down the contents of her cup.

-

Where Eleanor was a rock, Anne is a tempest, fierce and unreliable, and Max likes that about her. It is not love. Max intends to keep herself protected - her heart is locked away as safely as that of Davey Jones, hidden far from greedy, hurtful fingers.

What she feels when she catches one of Anne's rare half-smiles or the way Anne lays her out on her bed, spreads her legs with her hands on Max's thighs and puts her mouth on her as if she is a drowning woman and Max is air, is not love, but it is not business either.

She does not need Anne, she thinks, letting her hand run through Anne's hair, twining the salt-roughened strands around her fingers. From where Anne's head is pillowed on her stomach, her hair looks like brandished gold in the candlelight. She is running her thumb slowly along the bone of Max's hip, her breath soft and even against Max's skin.

Max savors her merciless protectiveness, the knowledge that she has someone who would slit a man's throat open without blinking if the situation arose, but she does not need it. Max is her own woman and Anne is in her bed, at Max's permission.

She slides her hand from Anne's hair to her back, feeling the knobs of her spine with her fingers, the heat of her skin beneath the thin film of sweat. Anne's angles her head to look at her, a soft grin on her lips, and presses a kiss to Max's stomach.

 _It is not love_ , Max thinks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
